My alarm rings before it’s even light outside, and I peel myself out of bed. Em lives a few blocks away in an ancient mansion with beautiful woodwork and enormous fireplaces. Her house is so big and formal, I feel weird letting myself in the side door.
Fortunately, the Bible group isn’t meeting in the living room—which reminds me of a funeral parlor from a movie, with lots of high-back sofas and long creepy drapes—but in the blue-and-white TV room on the second floor. When I arrive, lots of girls are already there. I recognize kids from school, some I didn’t even know were Christians. Everyone speaks in whispers, although somewhere in the house I can hear kitchen cupboards opening and water running.
I sit next to Em and she introduces me to Cathy, a woman who looks younger than our moms but older than a college student. She has long blond hair in a braid down her back and is wearing a loose plaid shirt.
“Lauren’s just observing today,” Em says.
“Great.” Cathy smiles. “Feel free to join in.”
Cathy calls the group to attention and asks them to turn to Mark 12. I decide to sit back from the group, on the window seat. I watch the girls flip through their Bibles and listen to Em read several verses, ending with, “Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself. There is none other commandment greater than these.”
Em pauses and Cathy turns to the group. “So what should we make of this?”
There’s a moment of silence, and then a girl I don’t know says, “Well, I think it means we should be good friends.”
I sit up a little straighter as the girls discuss what it means to be a good friend. I’ve never heard the Bible talked about as actually relevant to our lives. At Hebrew school, we talked about Jewish history or what the different rabbis said or how to fulfill Jewish commandments.
After the discussion, each girl shares her prayers for the day. Chloe is first. “I pray to understand math and get along better with my mom. And for all my friends to be happy.” She looks over at me.
The next girl says, “I pray for my sister to stop taking my stuff.” Everyone laughs. “And for Claire to be okay with her parents’ divorce.” Everyone looks at a girl named Claire, and she tries to smile.
Another girl I don’t know says, “I pray for my grandmother to recover from her operation, and I’m thankful for Em’s mom’s pancakes.” More laughter.
Claire waves her hand in front of her mouth when it’s her turn, so Cathy says, “We all pray for Claire to be strong and to be helped by her friends through this difficult time. And we hope she knows Jesus is her friend.”
Claire says, “Thank you.”
I knit my brow. Jesus? How is Jesus your friend if he died for your sins? Then Em says, “I pray for all my friends to make the right decisions and feel peaceful.”
She looks at me across the room.
The other girls pray for help at school or with personal problems. Cathy says, “I pray for Jesus to show us all how to live and that all your hopes and dreams will come true. Amen.”
The girls all say, “Amen,” and then they hold hands and smile as they send a “prayer squeeze” around the circle.
Then we go downstairs to the dining room, where Em’s mom is standing at the table with a huge platter of pancakes. Em passes me a plate. “See, isn’t Bible study amazing?”
I nod. I’m not sure what to say. It’s all so…personal.
“Is Jewish prayer like that?” Em asks.
“Um, not really.” But I can’t explain why. Em’s mom comes over to ask her something, and I’m saved from having to explain. Despite seven years of Hebrew school, I’ve never really prayed. I’ve recited the Hebrew prayers millions of times, and I know what most of them mean, but they aren’t my words or wishes. Jewish prayer is ritualized and thought out in advance. You say thanks for various things and praise God a zillion times, then you say a prayer for the sinners and for good health and praise God another zillion times—he’s a king, he’s a lord and a whole bunch of other male images—and then it’s finally over. I can’t think of a single time in all my years of Hebrew school when anyone said, Pray your own prayer. Making a wish when I blow out candles on my birthday cake is the closest I’ve ever come. How depressing. Eight years of Hebrew school has actually deprived me of the chance to pray. If I were going to write a list of reasons why being Jewish sucks, this would be near the top.
I wander away from the chatting girls to find the bathroom. On my way back, I spot what must be the library. Unlike Dad’s cluttered, book-filled mess with its Ikea furniture, this office is regal. Built-in bookshelves and a fireplace surround a huge desk. I sit on the floor near the entrance and listen to the girls’ chatter. Someone is discussing a math test, and I hear snippets of talk about a soccer game.
Jewish youth group is so not like this. At the one event I attended before I declared myself not Jewish, we played broomball and ate pizza. The girls worried about what their hair looked like, and the guys goofed off on the ice.
I tuck my knees up to my chest and rest my cheek on my folded arms. Tears come to my eyes, and I blink them back. I’m envious, not because they believe in God or because Jesus is their friend, but because they have each other.
I pull a book off a shelf near me to distract myself from self-pity and realize it’s an old book of maps of China. I stand up and look at some of the other titles. There are Bibles, lots of books on Christian missionaries, and then a whole wall of books on China. I wish Dad’s office was full of these kinds of books.
The girls start leaving, calling their thanks to Em and her mom and Cathy. Then I hear Chloe calling me. I step out of the library and into the hall.
“I’m here,” I say.
“Oh, good.” Chloe and Em already have their coats on. “Cathy’s going to drive us to school. Are you ready to go?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Are you okay?” Em asks.
“Yeah. Fine. Thanks for inviting me. It was cool.”
“You could come again, if you like.”
“The lone Jew at the Christian prayer group?”
“Well, you could say your own prayers, if you like.”
I feel tears well up. “I must be really tired.”
Em and Chloe both hug me. “We’ll keep praying for you even if you don’t come,” Chloe says.
I hug her tighter.
In biology class I sit on the aisle and concentrate on the video Mr. Saunders shows. I can tell Jesse glances at me several times, but I keep my eyes forward. At lunch I sit with Chloe and Em and listen to them study for an English-lit test.
Down the hall, Brooke, Chantal and Kelly surround Jesse. He looks like he’s enjoying himself, surrounded by three sets of cleavage. I notice Brooke has started wearing low-cut tops. Jesse doesn’t look over at me once. I sigh.
By the end of the day, I’m exhausted from my late night with Mengele and my early-morning Bible study. I go home after school and get into bed and fall asleep. When I wake up an hour later, it’s dark outside, and I snuggle under the covers and play games on my phone. I can always do my English reading later. Then I hear Mom calling me for dinner. I’m about to put my phone down when I notice a voice message. From Jesse. I feel my pulse start to race. Shut up, stupid heart. But it doesn’t. I play the message.
“You must think I’m the biggest jerk ever, and insensitive and racist. And I’m not. Look, we were drunk and it seemed like a good idea at the time, and no one thought, What’s the Jewish girl going to think? And we should have. So let’s go running and I’ll apologize all the way. And when we get back, you can beat the crap out of me at basketball. I’ll even let you win. Just kidding.”
Which emotion should I experience first? How about ecstasy? He called me. He wants to play basketball with me and go running. And he said he was wrong. That’s enough, isn’t it? I actually have to stop and clutch at my chest to make sure my heart doesn’t jump out of it. Can you die of excitement? Can you die from your heart actually beating too fast and…I don’t know, overexerting yourself? Probably not, if you’re a healthy teenager, or people would die from sex all the time, and that only happens to old men.
And then there’s the angst. What about Brooke? Am I supposed to say, Oops, he’s not a total Nazi, just kinda dumb and I’ve forgiven him, so get lost?
“Lauren, dinner is on the table,” Dad calls.
“Coming.”
I let my parents and Zach chat through dinner and focus on eating Mom’s delicious salmon. I don’t know how she does it, but she makes it with this maple-ginger glaze that’s awesome. I eat two helpings, and Mom smiles.
When I’m clearing the table, Dad hands me an envelope. I look at the return address and hand it back to him. It’s from the youth group again.
Dad raises one eyebrow. “Hey, you promised to at least think about going.”
I sigh and rip open the letter. What is it this time? A symposium on Jewish song, a debate on intermarriage? No, it’s a pamphlet for March of the Living, a Holocaust tour for teenagers that reenacts the walk Holocaust victims took from the Auschwitz concentration camp to the Birkenau camp.
“Why would they send me this?” I throw up my hands.
“That tour ends with a couple of weeks in Israel. Wouldn’t that be fun?” Mom says hopefully.
“You’re kidding, right?” I look at Mom. “Please tell me you think this is funny.”
Mom puts down her scrub brush and dries her hands on a dishtowel. “I don’t think it’s funny at all. I think it’s educational.”
I drop the pamphlet onto the counter and rub my forehead. “Wait, let me get this right. I’ve already told you I’m sick of the Holocaust and think it’s way overdone, but you want me to experience more Holocaust, in Poland, and then get on a plane and go to Israel?”
Mom loads the dishwasher with the dirty plates. “Shayna Shuster says Rebecca went last year and loved it.”
“Rebecca Shuster is an idiot.”
Mom gives me a pained look. “I know you haven’t been very interested in doing anything Jewish, but this might help you reconnect with your Jewish roots.” I slap my hands against my thighs. “UNBELIEVABLE.”
“What’s the problem?” Mom asks.
“You really don’t get it?”
“No, it seems like a nice idea. You might even meet a nice Jewish guy.”
I can’t decide whether to laugh or cry. I start hiccupping instead. “Absolutely no effing way would I go on that trip.”
“Hey, language,” Dad says.
“Are you guys out of your minds?”
Mom sighs. “What’s the problem?” she asks again.
“I know I’m not supposed to tell you guys you’re stupid or anything, but COME ON!”
“Enough with the theatrics. State your case.” Dad crosses his arms against his chest.
“Okay, so you take a bunch of teenagers to Poland, and you stuff them with ideas of how Jews were hated for centuries and then finally exterminated in gas chambers. And then, when they’re filled with misery and have begun to see themselves as victims, you fly them to Israel and tell them they’re free, that they have their own homeland. Then they support Israel no matter what it does, even if it means killing Palestinians. You’re turning kids into Holocaustarians.”
“Did you say Holocaustarians?” Dad asks.
“Yes, I just made it up. There are people who are Christians or Buddhists or vegetarians or whatever, and then there are people who are Holocaustarians. And not just any holocaust, but the one with the capital H.”
“Let’s not go down that road again.”
“I can’t believe you were stupid enough to show me this pamphlet!”
“It just came in the mail…” Dad says.
I stomp out of the kitchen and go up to my room. I’m so angry, I feel like slamming my door a hundred times.
Instead I pull on my running clothes and take the stairs back down three at a time. Mom comes into the front hall as I’m pulling on my mittens.
“Where are you going?”
“For a run.”
“At night? I don’t think so.”
“Watch me.” I slam the door.
Outside it’s damp, and the wind whips the last leaves off the trees and sends them scurrying down the street. I sprint down the block until I’m panting and have to walk. I nudge the wet leaves with my running shoes. I’ve forgotten to bring an elastic, and my hair blows around my face. It’s too cool to keep walking, so I start a slow jog.
Why do people have to keep reminding me I’m Jewish? And worse, why do they keep using the Holocaust to do it? I don’t get it. If Jewish organizations want to teach kids about their Jewish heritage in a positive way, they should send them to Spain, so we can see the sights of the Golden Age when Jews and Muslims lived together in harmony. I learned about that in grade-eight history.
I start to calm down as I jog through the streets. I like looking into people’s houses when their lights are on. Inside, people are eating dinner or watching TV. No one is getting killed or massacred or planning on killing someone. At least, I hope not. A few cars pass, and I see someone walking a dog. Then I hear footsteps coming up behind me, running footsteps. I tense and look over my shoulder. Another runner, a guy, is coming down the street—fast. Too fast. I’m about to cross the road when I hear someone call, “Hey, Lauren.” I turn and realize it’s Jesse. “Wait up,” he calls.
I stop and wait until he catches up.
“What are you doing out here?” I blurt.
Jesse’s panting. “I saw you go running by and…well, I thought I’d go for a run too.”
I can’t help smiling. “Oh.”
Jesse starts jogging beside me. “How far are we going?”
“I’m not sure. It might be a long run.”
“All right, I like a challenge.” He lifts his hand to high-five me. I think about ignoring it; then I see his face, sort of eager, and I notice he has beautiful, perfectly sculpted eyebrows, as if he’s had them professionally shaped. A little tingle travels down my legs, and I reach over and smack his hand.
I let Jesse set the pace and the route. I’m too nervous to think of anything to say. Usually I turn around at Sixteenth Avenue, but Jesse keeps heading north. I did say I was going on a long run. Rain starts to fall, not a downpour but more of a gentle mist, and I try to rescue my hair by pulling up my hood. After a while I relax a little. Jesse looks cute in his track pants, his hair hanging down in his eyes. Every block or so, he pushes his hair behind his ear, and it stays there for about half a block and then falls down again.
The closer we get to the beach, the windier it gets. By the time we reach the road next to the beach, the wind has whipped strands of my hair loose from my hood and sent them flying around my head. I can’t imagine what my hair will look like by the time we get back.
“How far are we going?” I finally say.
“Oh.” Jesse looks at me. “I don’t know.”
“We should turn around.” My parents will kill me if they find out I was down by the beach at night.
“If we go a little farther west, it’s not such a steep hill home.”
We jog along the waterfront, the puddles lit up by passing headlights. When we get to a grassy park, Jesse grabs my hand. “Hey, wanna go down to the beach?”
I don’t want to, but Jesse’s holding my hand, so I squeeze his hand yes and let him lead me down a steep flight of stairs to a gravel path above the rocky shore. The wind roars around us, damp and unruly, swirling off the water. It’s dark on the path, but across the harbor, downtown shimmers, and beyond that the lights on Grouse Mountain twinkle.
Jesse laughs into the wind. “Isn’t this amazing?” I shiver and nod, smiling wildly. I feel like I could lean into the wind and it would support me, and I wouldn’t go careening into the rocks.
“Okay,” Jesse says, and he points his thumb to the stairs. We sprint up the steps and stand in the lee of a huge tree. I hunch over, trying to catch my breath as I wipe my eyes. Jesse stretches his quads. I try not to stare at him as I run my hands through my hair. I know my cheeks must be bright from the run.
“We should get going.”
“Run too far for ya?”
“My parents are going to kill me for being gone so long in the dark.”
“They notice that kind of thing?”
“Sure. Don’t yours?”
“No, not so much.”
“It’s ’cause you’re a guy.”
Jesse shrugs. “I think they got used to not having me around. You know, being away at school and all.”
“Oh. You happy to be back?”
“Yep.” He smiles at me, and I flex my legs nervously.
My sweat starts to chill. “We should get going.”
“Wait a second.” Jesse grabs both of my hands. “You never texted me back.”
“Oh.” I look up into his face. “I guess I didn’t know what to say.”
Jesse squeezes my hands. “Well, how about you say, ‘I accept your apology.’”
“Um, okay. Yeah.” I’m so nervous, I can’t think. The wind is pushing my hair into my face, and I’m worried I might smell from the run. Jesse steps closer to me and I let him, even though I know I shouldn’t. I should pull away and say, Race you to the intersection. Instead I let Jesse pull me close enough that I can put my head on his shoulder. I’m so close, I can hear him breathing. My own nervous breath is coming so fast, I’m sure I sound like I’m having an asthma attack. Then Jesse lets go of my hands and his arms wrap around me, his hands smoothing the back of my running jacket. I inhale noisily and feel my cheeks flush. I stay absolutely still, holding my breath, my face resting on his shoulder. I’m supposed to do something with my arms. Letting them dangle is not an option. I take a deep breath and wrap my arms around his waist. I’d like to squeeze him tightly and prove to myself that this is for real, that Jesse is actually hugging me. I don’t dare. I’m so nervous, I’m not even enjoying the hug. How pissed off will Brooke be?
Then I feel Jesse starting to pull away a little and I think, Okay, this is going to end, and we’ll jog home, and maybe we’ll forget about this. Maybe we’ll call it “that time we once hugged by a tree near the beach.” Omigod, that sounds so romantic. Then Jesse leans down, his lips moving warm and wet on mine. I can taste the salt from his sweat. I stop thinking about Brooke or anything but Jesse’s delicious lips. I’m so out of breath I’m sure Jesse will notice. He’ll say, “Yanofsky, you breathe like a truck.”
But he doesn’t. He nuzzles my ear and says, “I’ve wanted to do that for a long time.”
I don’t say anything. I can’t say anything. But I pull away and let him see the smile spreading across my face. It’s the kind of smile that’s so big it feels like my face might crack. I grab Jesse’s hand and pull him toward the intersection and then back up the street toward home. I flap my arms, pretending to be a bird or a plane.
It’s a long run back, but when I feel tired, I look at Jesse, and the smile he gives me makes me think I could fly all the way home.
We run down the back lane behind our houses and I say goodbye at my garage. “Wait,” Jesse says, but I don’t want anyone to see us, so I just wave and slip through the back gate.
As soon as I’m out of sight, I throw myself against the garage door. Omigod. I can’t believe it. He wants to kiss me. He did kiss me. I do a small jig and trigger the motion-sensor light. Mom opens the back door.
“Lauren, is that you?”
“Yep, it’s me.”
“We were worried. Where have you been?”
“On a really long run.”
Mom sighs. “It’s not safe for a girl alone.”
“Yeah yeah. Whatever.”
“We’ll take you to the gym, or you can use the treadmill here.”
“Yeah, okay.” I want to be alone, so I slip past her and run up to the shower.
I strip off my clothes, stand under the hot water and do a little happy dance. I want to tell Brooke, but we’re not talking. How can I not share this with her? I want to tell everyone. But I won’t. I’ll keep this secret to myself. I wrap my arms around myself in the shower. Jesse wants to kiss me. He did kiss me. I do another happy dance.